Operation: Spaghetti Romance
by Alias424
Summary: The boys hatch the plan. Angela adds a few necessary adjustments and feminine touches. And just like that, the super-secret special set-up mission is set to commence.


**A/N: **This is just something fun (and probably a bit silly) to try to get my writing groove back. Thanks for reading!

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><p>There's a rhythm to these nights out. Trudging inside with heavy sighs, that first sip of beer tasting like the nectar of the gods, frothy moustaches (mostly) wiped away on the backs of hands. They discuss their latest case, their other cases—they talk about the Sox (or Bruins or Celtics, depending on the season). And then—inevitably—sometime after the fourth round, the night takes a turn.<p>

'Does anyone else think Jane and Doctor Isles have a special sort of…,' Frost trails off, the last word eluding him.

'Chemistry?' Korsak shouts it (he thinks he's whispering).

'Aww c'mon, that's my sister!' A few stone-cold fries go flying as Frankie balks, the idea of his sister with… well _anyone_… not exactly his favourite topic of conversation.

'So? She's totally hot for the Doc.'

'Definitely.' Korsak signals for another beer. (The bartender squints, gauging just how much of a problem this might end of being for him, before finally sliding it over.)

'Would'ya stop yelling in my ear?' Frankie shoves the older man. 'She is not.'

Frost is adamant (and seems surprisingly sober). 'She is.'

'She is?'

'She is.'

Frankie's eyes widen, a light-bulb flickering on in his beer-soaked brain. 'Shit, she is! And Maura?'

'Oh yeah. They look at each other like—'

'Don't say it,' Frankie interrupts, shaking his head wildly. 'I don't need whatever mental image you're about to give me.'

'Those two need each other,' Korsak sighs (almost quietly), resting his chin on his hand—and it's a little bit alcohol and a whole lot of truth.

Frost toys with an empty bottle. 'I wonder….'

Two magic words.

The beginning to a thousand foolish dares, inane inventions, and reckless schemes.

And just like that, there's no going back. (There almost never is.)

The boys hatch the plan. (Well, Frost hatches it, technically. Frankie aggressively agrees with everything, and after one too many outdated suggestions, Korsak is mainly told to keep quiet.) Like any good plan, it is borne out of greasy bar food and way too much alcohol—there are codenames and special assignments and even a few covert ninja tactics.

But all that is just par for the course.

Unlike most good plans, spaghetti has become the hero—vitally, inexplicably, and even one-or-two-arguments important.

(Though spaghetti is delicious, so why the hell not?)

The really fucking weird thing? (Aside from that obvious bit around 1am that involved bubble wrap and no-tears shampoo and an honest-to-God in-the-trunk-of-a-car kidnapping.) Is that most of it actually holds up the next day.

Maybe not after two cups of coffee and in bright sunlight (there's always a caveat), but in those groggy moments first thing in the morning or after a particularly heavy bacon and egg sandwich.

And that's just about enough.

They try to laugh over it, nursing their headaches with aspirin and alka-seltzer. What they hell were they thinking, trying to get Jane and Maura together? Seriously?

(But the laughter is hollow, the grins not carried from mouth to eyes. It's all for show and saving face—because it's really no laughing matter at all.)

If they'd been left alone for three more seconds, the whole idea might have tapered off into headaches and laughter—nothing but a drunken half-memory.

(And maybe it should have been.)

But when Hurricane Angela blows over to their table, clearing dirty dishes while simultaneously pinning down the stack of greasy-fingerprint-filled napkins that Frankie quickly tries to hide—she puts her foot down.

They're doing this. Come hell or high water.

Though with a few necessary adjustments.

The codenames stick (the boys insist). The kidnapping bit goes. A few key players and feminine touches are added. And the gears are put into motion with an alarming rapidity. Everyone agrees it's for the best. (For the most part—and no one is willing to cross Angela otherwise.)

And just like that, the super-secret special set-up mission is set to commence at 1300 (or, let's be serious—sometime roughly after lunch). Deviations are permitted in an emergency, but generally frowned upon. Backup will be provided when necessary (but you'll have to endure the teasing of other operatives).

It's go time.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation: Spaghetti Romance<strong>

**Rejected Names: **Operation: Get It On Already; Operation: Get Jane's Head Out of Her Butt; Operation: Jane and Maura Sitting in a Tree, K. I. S. S. I. N. G.

(That last one actually earned quite a few votes, but was sadly too long for practical purposes.)

* * *

><p><strong>Operative 1:<strong> Korsak

**Codename:** Captain Obvious

**Time:** 1316

**Assignment:** Obviously, point out the obvious. (But not so obviously that things get weird—there's a balance.)

**Script Suggestions:** _You look real nice today, Maura. Jane, doesn't Maura look nice today? How about that dress, huh?_

**Special Instructions:** For the love of God, do _not_ sound like a crazy person and use proper human inflection so as not to sound like a damned robot.

(Jane raises an eyebrow but cautiously plays along. Maura beams, waxing on about the history and design of her outfit and how Jane's suit jacket is particularly form-fitting today. Korsak tries and fails to not break out in a sweat.)

**Success Rate:** Average

**Notes:** _You really need to get out more. 'Groovy' is not really a word the kids use these days._

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><p><strong>Operative 2:<strong> Frankie

**Codename:** Butterfingers

**Rejected Codenames:** Epic Ninja Assassin, The Best Rizzoli, Village Idiot

**Time:** 1347

**Assignment:** 'Borrow' Jane's car. Spill the contents of an entire Big Gulp in the front seat of Jane's car. Dodge the wrath (and hopefully force a certain detective to carpool with a certain medical examiner for the rest of the day).

**Special Instructions:** _Think you can manage that? You knock that thing over nearly every damn day anyway._

(Jane blows a gasket and has to be restrained by Frost. Frankie tries to hightail it, running smack into Maura, who has appeared in the doorway with what had been two coffees—and is now one coffee and a caffeinated modern art project, mainly using her dress as a canvas. It's actually quite tasteful, in a Pollock-esque sort of way—naturally, Jane does not seem to see it that way.

Frankie is advised to lay low to prevent his own murder—no one really wants to have to do the paperwork.)

**Success Rate:** Dismal or spectacular, depending on your point of view.

**Notes:** Twenty minutes under a hand dryer, and he still hasn't completely dried the orange soda on his pants. Or the coffee on his jacket.

**Beverage Choice:** Abysmal. _Orange soda? Seriously? What are you, five?_

* * *

><p><strong>Operative 3: <strong>Susie

**Codename:** Timekeeper

**Time:** Ongoing

**Assignment: **You do you, Susie. Run tests, get reports, and make sure the lab runs smooth as silk. The good doctor must always know what time it is and be out of the office in a timely manner. Easy peasy, right?

(Almost.)

(Susie is a star—would have given a stellar performance even if she hadn't been briefed on her assignment. Though perhaps it would have been better if she had knocked just a _little _bit louder on Dr. Isles' office door when handing over that report. But she's nothing if not loyal, and will carry that secret to her grave—or at least hold it in for as long as she is physically able.

Jane's eyes boring into hers in that moment are not something easily forgotten. She plans to avoid the detective for probably the rest of forever.)

**Success** **Rate:** A++

**Notes: **She seems especially tight-lipped (and embarrassed) about something that none of the boys can seem to get out of her. Further investigation (in the form of a special interrogation courtesy of Angela) is required upon completion of the mission.

* * *

><p><strong>Operative 4:<strong> Frost

**Codename:** RoboCop

**More Appropriate Codenames:** Gopher, Expeditor

**Time:** Ongoing

**Assignment:** Be helpful to the nth degree. Anything and everything Jane might need within the realm of the law and possibility.

(Jane is now overtly suspicious. And maybe Frost is laying on the helpfulness a little too strong—that fourth cup of coffee magically appearing on her desk was a bit much, even he had to admit. But he'll be damned if this thing will fail, especially at his hand. So Jane accepts the coffees and filed paperwork and extra legwork with limited grumbling. And leaves the bullpen at promptly 1734.)

**Success Rate: **Above average

**Notes:**_ Maybe tone it down a notch next time, Jeeves. You needed to get her out the door on time, not become her personal butler._

* * *

><p><strong>Operative 5:<strong> Angela

**Codename:** Mamma Mia

**Time:** 1800 on the dot

**Location:** Maura's House

**Assignment:** Dinner for two, hot and ready. And a little ambiance. Candles and girly… stuff. Spaghetti. Get a nice _Lady and the Tramp _moment going.

(Angela can't necessarily see her Maura slurping spaghetti, and rejects the suggestion for something a tad more refined, but the boys are steadfast—_We'd have to change the whole name, Ma! It took us an hour to come up with that, it's the perfect plan!_

It's spaghetti or bust.)

**Special Instructions: **_Most important—wait. Do not go running out and meet them at the front door. They need to come to you. Jane spooks easily._

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><p>The night is set to go off without a hitch.<p>

Except for maybe one that nobody seemed to consider….

'We're going to have to tell them, aren't we?'

… that while the boys were out scheming ways to get the girls together, the girls were at Maura's, very much together indeed.

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><p><em>It started almost without starting at all. No heady build-up. No <em>eureka! _moment. Just a late-night chat on Jane's bed that had tapered off with a sleepy, 'I should get going,' followed quickly by a thick, 'Don't bother,' and the click of a light. Under the covers, together, with a breathing silence broken almost too late by a soft, 'Night, Maura,' and the lilting answer—'Goodnight, Jane.'_

_When they awoke, far too early—Maura first, then Jane—pressed close together, neither moved. And it just… began. No words. No embarrassment. Just Maura pressing a palm into the arm thrown across her stomach, holding it in place—and Jane daring to let her lips brush against a shoulder as she mumbled, 'Breakfast?'_

_There was a grin and a nod. And a stomach rumbling._

_That might have been the end of it._

_(And thank God it wasn't.)_

_But instead of darting straight up and out into the day, Jane breathed. She breathed and her grip on Maura tightened, and Maura's answering sigh was everything—the question neither of them had bothered to ask and also the answer._

_And Jane was suddenly determined to hear it grow louder and stretch out and wrap around her tongue._

_She succeeded. Twice._

* * *

><p>'Eventually, yes,' Maura agrees.<p>

Jane shushes her, pulling Maura a bit too roughly away from the window—the house is bright and cheery, lights blazing and Angela busy within.

They'd agreed to quiet. For just a little while. Not forever, but even a day or two. Time that could be theirs and no one else's before all the back-slapping and meddling mothers and _I told you so's. _Time for them to have an actual proper conversation, maybe even a date.

(And yes, all the sneaking around was highly erotic, no question.)

But Jesus Christ it hadn't even been twenty-four fucking hours. Was barely twelve, come to that. And there was her mother, in her… Maura's house, cooking a not-so-subtle romantic dinner, and probably already planning the wedding and a sperm donor and names for her grandchildren.

Jane groans, a long and tired sound, but she's still careful to keep it just quiet enough (her mother has about eight extra senses, after all, and now is not the time to test them). Gingerly leaning back against Maura's still-closed front door, she scrubs a hand over her eyes. 'I can't take another day of this.'

'Of what?' Maura touches her hand to Jane's, pulling it back and intertwining their fingers. It's a small comfortable gesture so easy and practiced, it's almost as if this isn't the first time.

(Jane marvels at the way each one of those fingers fits so perfectly against hers.)

'Everyone I know trying to play matchmaker. Badly.'

'Jane.' Maura has her keys in one hand, the other perched on her hip, head tilting (it takes all Jane's strength not to kiss her). 'I really doubt they were….'

Jane holds up a hand to stop her. 'They had codenames, Maura. _Codenames_.' _And _she had caught Frankie trying to do a barrel roll in between the door to the bullpen and his desk.

Maura purses her lips, considering this newfound information (Jane loves this look—seeing each individual gear turning in Maura's head, connecting into a quick pattern, until—). 'That _would_ explain Susie's strange behaviour all day.'

(There is definitely something else that would explain Susie's strange behaviour all day—there's not much point hiding it.)

'Susie knows.'

'Does she?'

'Oh yeah.' Her voice thickens, cracking at the memory. 'When you were changing your dress earlier and I was….'

* * *

><p><em>Not looking.<em>

_Not looking, not looking, not looking._

_Maura insisted the dress was fine and the coffee would come out, but Jane knew otherwise—it was going to take more than a Tide pen and simple run through the wash to fix it._

_She might kill her brother. For this more than the orange soda all over her car._

_Because that dress. That fucking beautiful work of art of a dress. Practically painted on. It had been excruciatingly hard tearing her eyes from it at regular intervals during the day, and the thought that she might never see it again was…. Well, she was not going to let that fucking happen if she had to make a new one herself._

_And then… even more pressing than the dress _on_ Maura__—__the dress _off_ her._

_The crunch of a zipper. A flash of falling fabric out of the corner of her eye. _

_Jane swallowed. Hard. Could feel the sweat beading on her forehead. (Jesus, is she really so ridiculous?)_

_She shouldn't have followed Maura down here._

_(She couldn't fucking resist.)_

_A scrap of stained fabric thrown into her hands and a mostly-naked Maura Isles in front of her. The million dollar question was what would she rather have her hands on—and the answer took no thought at all._

_Or rather, it sprung to mind a million new questions. Because she (unfortunately) only has two hands. And there are breasts and a waist, two hips, thighs, bits of lace and too-sheer fabric, and her head felt like fireworks at the idea of not-all-of-them-at-once._

_So she didn't think at all. (Really, it's better that way.)_

_Right hand, breast._

_Left hand, hip (and sliding)._

'_Jane—' It was more sigh than spoken, a beautiful sound—and she knew both the question that would follow and its answer already. '—do you really think it wise to do this here?'_

_Yes._

_Wordless (and breathless) into Maura's mouth, fingers dipping past lace. _

_Jane growled._

* * *

><p>Maura's cheeks are pink, her eyes wide. 'I told you that was risky.'<p>

'I didn't hear you complaining,' Jane smirks—the gesture quickly falling as the door gives way behind her, Maura's hand on the handle (and her grin screaming _gotcha!_). Jane glares at the betrayal, but the other woman knows her power and dismisses the look with a gentle squeeze of Jane's hip as she passes her.

The two women step inside—one graceful, the other lumbering and wanting not very much to be there at all. There's a beat once the door closes, and Jane braces herself, knowing just how long her mother will be able to wait before making her move.

Three, two….

'Is that you, Maura?' Angela calls—in a voice very much implying that she knows it's not just Maura at all.

'Hello, Angela!'

'And me, Ma. Just like you planned.'

'I don't know what you're talking about. But good thing you're both here. I made all this spaghetti, but—'

'There's some sort of cooking emergency and your SuperMa powers are needed elsewhere?'

The table is set. There are candles and far too many covered dishes and multiple forks. And are those…? Yes. Chocolate-covered strawberries. And the brief whiff of something else baked and chocolaty that hasn't long been out of the oven. This goes far beyond a simple spaghetti and into the realm of a dinner aboard the Titanic.

'Your brother needs cookies, Jane! There's a bake sale for TJ's daycare!'

'Convenient.'

There's an elbow in her ribs, soft but still packing enough of a punch to mean business.

'Jane, your mother went through all this trouble, and it looks delicious. It wouldn't hurt to sit down and enjoy it.'

On the one hand, Maura is right. Food is food (and Jane is starving).

On the other hand… she very much does _not _want her first romantic dinner with Maura to have her mother's hand in every dish. And what were they thinking anyway? That she and Maura were going to slurp spaghetti together and nudge meatballs toward each other with their noses?

(God, boys can be such idiots.)

'At least one of you has some sense,' Angela clucks, shooting her daughter a look and dimming the lights.

Jesus Christ. The subtlety is not strong with this one. Dimmed lights. Candles. If she doesn't get her mother out of here soon, there will probably be Barry White. The thought of it makes Jane's skin crawl.

Decision made. Now or never.

'Look, Ma. You guys can stop whatever you're plotting.' She wraps an arm around Maura's waist, and it feels so damn good there, out in the open. 'Maura and I are….'

'Don't you try that on me, young lady,' Angela scolds, even waving a finger. 'Giovanni told me about your antics. You're so mean to that poor boy.'

'Look!'

She pulls Maura in and kisses her, so quickly she nearly misses her mouth entirely (she wants to linger—God, she wants to linger—but not now, to prove a point and with her mother watching). Maura is caught by surprise, slightly flushed and open-mouthed, balance off kilter—and Jane has to reach out and steady her when she realises she's pushed her away too quickly.

(What isn't noticed is what's most important. The flash of a smile in Maura's eyes. The way she ever-so-slightly nuzzles into Jane's shoulder in the aftermath. And Jane. Eyes shining. Breathing properly and fully for the first time since she's entered the house. That arm snaking around Maura's waist and fingers softly grasping.

But it's blink-and-you'll-miss-it for a reason. People usually do.)

Jane is triumphant. Chest thrust forward, head held high.

Angela is laughing.

(Triumph becomes confusion, confusion prickles to anger, and Jane's shrinking—slowly but surely shrinking, her grip on Maura tightening.)

'Jane Rizzoli, I've seen you kiss your brothers more passionately than that!'

'Ew, Ma!' She lets go of Maura entirely, throwing her hands in the air in front of her and slowly backing away.

'Never mind. Just enjoy your dinner.' Angela reaches in and kisses her daughter on the cheek, and then Maura. 'Looks like we're an item now too, Janie!'

Jane's powerless to do anything but roll her eyes and grumble a goodbye (Maura, naturally, manages something far more polite, walking Angela out in a flurry of goodbyes).

'I don't understand that woman,' Jane groans when the door finally closes, flopping onto the couch. 'She wants us to be together, I tell her we are, and she calls me a liar.'

'Well, that was a rather chaste kiss.'

'I'm not gonna make out with you in front of my mother.'

'I should hope not,' Maura laughs lightly, stepping out of her heels and sinking down beside her.

'What are we supposed to do now?' Jane's hand finds Maura's knee, her thumb drawing absent patterns. 'If we try to tell them again tomorrow, they'll just think their weird antics magically brought us together.'

'Would that be so bad?'

Yes. Probably? No, absolutely. Without a doubt. Right?

She knows she doesn't want it, but _would it be so bad…?_

'I wonder if I could get Susie to—'

'You will not traumatise poor Susie any more than she has been, Jane.' Maura is adamant, practically bristling—there's no point arguing (and really Jane was half-joking to begin with). 'We already owe her an apology as it is.'

'Fiiiiiiiine.' Where there's a will, there's another way. 'Then we'll—'

'No.'

Jane looks up in surprise, eyebrows raising. 'No? You didn't even let me finish.'

Maura's hand snags the v of Jane's t-shirt, balling the material into a tight fist and tugging, her mouth catching Jane's frown and turning it. Jane's pulled in (always and easily), but Maura is an unexpected tease, leaving them hanging _just _apart, breathing everything them and this and the moment in (and out, in, and out).

Jane lets her have it. And then she doesn't. A hand at the back of Maura's head and just enough pressure, until—

(Maura smiles and lets Jane in.)

It's everything that last kiss wasn't (and then some)—with one very important similarity. It ends far too soon.

Jane knits her brow in protest, trying to pull Maura her back to her. But Maura is the one on a mission now, stays teasingly close again but not letting herself be pulled any closer.

'Finished?'

'Yes.' Jane nods solemnly, a perfect girl scout now (she'd agree to fucking anything).

'Good.'

The twist of a smirk, a tilt of a head. And fingertips softly searching for (and eventually finding) skin under fabric. 'And no.'

'Even better.'

* * *

><p><strong>Mission Summary:<strong> Inconclusive. Annoyingly.

The debrief is less than stellar, mainly owing to the fact that no one actually seems to be able to confirm or deny whether the mission was accomplished. Sure, it still seemed as if Jane was at Maura's in the morning, but that's not exactly unusual. As Frost so succinctly puts it, Jane and Maura were already so Jane and Maura (without actually being _Jane and Maura_) that it makes it almost impossible to tell where normality would end and something like romance might begin.

The finger-pointing begins. Some blame the spaghetti—others take offense at the very thought. One operative in particular seems to think that Angela's spying wasn't up to par—though he has just enough wits about him to not come _flat out_ and say it. Unfortunately his mother has had a lifetime of his antics to read between the lines and glower down upon him.

Which is when Frankie remembers (and the save-yourself-and-tattle instinct kicks in full-force).

'Susie knows something!'

Angela descends like a thundercloud, the boys flanking her. (Her Italian mother interrogation tactics—85% guilt and 15% stink-eye, with just a dash of disappointment—are best avoided if at all possible.)

Susie slinks back, eyes darting, searching for an escape.

She has one chance—and about three seconds—to make it to the door and run like hell.

Three….

Two….

Run!


End file.
